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POETICAL WORKS 



§0BBRT HORNS* 






|)ljtfabdpljra: 

PORTER & COATES, 

822 Chestnut Street. 



a. a.* 



CAXTON PRESS OF 
SHERMAN & CO., PHILADELPHIA. 






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PREFACE. 



The genius of Burns has become the heir-loom of 
the world. The beatings of the Ayrshire plough- 
man's heart of poetry, in the wild melody of his 
nature, have caused the hearts of millions to throb in 
unison with its music. Not alone, now, among the 
mountains of his own land, nor upon the lips of his 
countrymen, do the numbers of the poet vibrate ; but, 
wherever a warm heart feels the glow of friendship, 
wherever a sad spirit droops under misfortune, or a 
proud soul rises against the sea of adversity — there 
the truthful, the earnest, the ennobling thoughts of 
Robert Burns, find an eternal response. 

Mingled with the songs of Vega, in the valleys of 
Spain, inspiring a Beranger, upon the plains of France, 
or joining with the strains of a Burger, and an Uh- 
land, in the music of Rhineland, still we find the 
farmer poet winning the sympathy of gentle and noble 
hearts. 

It is because he speaks to the deep affections, in his 
own simple and honest accents — whispering hope to 
the desponding, trust to the despairing, that the 
poetry of Burns is so prized and loved. We feel 
when reading it, that it is not rank, nor power, nor 



IV PREFACE. 

riches, that invest the true man with his noblest at- 
tributes. Though poverty, and misfortune, and the 
world's contempt, darken the bright sky of his ex- 
istence, we still feel that, in the words of out poet, 
" a man's a man for a' that." 

The fate of the poet, too, is one which awakens a 
painful interest in the hearts of those who have lin- 
gered with delight over his truthful poetry. Trans- 
planted for a season, from the wild garden of his 
youth to the hot house of sudden popularity, and then 
returned, once more, to wither in obscurity, he is a 
sad instance of the fate of those " who put their trust 
in princes." Had he ever sung amid his own Bonnie 
hills, and by bis own sweet streams, — had he ever 
been the poet of the plough, his life would have been 
far happier, his genius brighter, and his fame unri- 
valled. 

Yet, Burns will live as loag as there is poetry in 
the human heart. 



5 




BURNS. 

How oft across the murky lake, 

A flash of light will gleam, 
The darksome clouds above to break, 

And gild the gloomy stream. 

How oft our spirit, in its dreams, 

A strain of music hears— 
So sad, and yet so sweet, it seems 
( The "music of the spheres." 

The voice that comes to us in dreams, 
The flash that gilds the wave — 

Are like thy life, O Burns, whose beamt 
Have vanished in the grave. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
Preface, --------3 

Tarn O'Shanter, ------ 13 

The Twa Dogs, -------21 

Highland Hospitality, ----- 29 

The Brigs of Ayr, ------ 30 

To Mary, -- 38 

Phillis the Fair, -------39 

The Lea-Rig, ------- 40 

Bonnie Lesley, -------41 

Highland Mary, ------ 42 

Jessie, --------43 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle, - - - - 44 

Song, - - -.- - - - - -45 

To Mary in Heaven, ----- 46 

Galla Water, -------47 

Lord Gregory, -------48 

When wild war's deadly blast was Blown, - 49 
Tarn Glen, ----_•-- 51 

John Anderson my jo, John, - - - - 53 

Tibbie Dunbar, ___.-- ib, 

O, were I on Parnassus' Hill, 54 

Auld Rob Morris, ------ 55 

I Love my Jean, -------56 

Meg o' the Mill, ------ ib 

The Northern Lass, ------ 57 

Bess and her Spinning Wheel, - 58 

My Tocher's the Jewel, ----- 59 

Country Lassie, ------ 60 

Song, ---------61 

Fair Eliza, ------- 62 

Rose-JJud by my early Walk, - — - 63 

Mary Morison, -----,- 64 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

Papa 
Long, long the Night, ------ 65 

Wha is that at my Bower Door, - 66 

Anna, ---------67 

Farewell, thou Stream, ----- 68 

Song, -------..69 

Bannock Burn, ------ 70 

Song, ---------71 

Up in the Morniug Earlv, - 72 

Stream, ---'----.73 

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad, - - 74 
Farewell to Ayr, -------75 

Eliza, -------- 76 

Song, ---------77 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle, - - - - 78 

Colin's Jenny, -------79 

Robin Shure in Hairst, ----- 80 

On a Bank of Flowers, ----- 81 

Wee Willie Gray, ------ 82 

Evan Banks. -------83 

O Leave Novels, ------ 84 

Fare Thee Well, - 85 

Scottish Song, ------ 86 

Song, ---------87 

The Bonnie Lad that's far Awa, 88 

Young Petrgy, -------89 

Guid Ale Comes, ------ 90 

The Dumfries Volunteers, ----- 91 

Mary's E'e, ------- 92 

Afton Waters, -------93 

Beware o' Bonnie Ann, ----- 94 

Jockey's ta'en the Parting Kiss, 95 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, - - - 96 
Lines on the ninetieth Psalm, - - - 97 

1 do confess Thou art sae Fair, - - - 98 
Wilt Thou be my Dearie, ----- 99 

Banks of dee, ------- ib. 

Bonnie Peg, ------- 100 

A Red, Red Rose, ------ 101 

Louis, what reck I by Thee, - ib. 



CONTEXTS. 



Bong, -------- lf)2 

Song, ----- id. 

For the sake o' Somebody, - 103 

How cruel are my Parents, - - - - ib. 

A Mother's Lament, - - - - - 104 

English Song, ------- 105 

Song, --------106 

O, What ye Wha's in yon Town, - 107 

O May, thy Morn, ------ 108 

Comin' through the Rye. ----- 109 

John Barleycorn ------ 110 

Polly Stewart, - - - - - - -112 

The Gallant Weaver, - - - - - 113 

On a Scotch Bard, ------ 114 

Raving Winds around her Blowing, - . - - 116 

Strathallan's Lament, ------ ib. 

Sons, - - 117 

Song, ---------118 

She says she loe's me best o' a', 119 

The Auld Man, - ------ 120 

The Lover's Morning Salute, 121 

The Young Highland Rover, * - - - 122 

Sic a Wife as Willie Had, - - - - 123 

Dumourier, -------- 124 

Young Jockey, ------ 125 

Autumn Ramble, - - - - - ib. 

My Peggy's Face, ------ 127 

Song, - - - - - - - 128 

Poor man's Song, ------ 129 

For a' that and a' that, ----- 132 

Song, - - - 133 

Musing on the Roaring Ocean, - 134 

Auld Lang Syne, ------ 135 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher. - - - - 136 

Dream Book, - - ' - - - - 137 

Song, --------- ib. 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes, - - - 138 

Green grow the Rashes, ----- 139 

The Birks of Aberfeldy. 140 



Z CONTENTS. 

Page 
Song, - -- -- .--141 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 142 

My Bonnie Mary, ------ 143 

Dainty Davie, ------- 144 

Song, - - - - - - - ~ - -145 

And Maun I still on Menie doat, 146 

The Wood Lark, ------- 147 

Song, 148 

Clarinda, --------149 

The Riggs o' Barley, ------ 150 

Song, ---151 

Whistle o'er the Lave o't, - 152 

Song, -------- 153 

Lassie wi' the Lint-White Locks. - - - 154 
Bonnie Jean, ------- 155 

The Deuks Dang o'er my Daddie, - - - 157 
Song, -------- 158 

O ay my Wife she dang Me, - - - - 159 

Song, --------160 

Song, ---------162 

The day returns my Bosom Burns, 163 

O this is no my ain Lassie, ----- 164 

Winter, --------165 

Song, ---------166 

The First Psalm, - - - - - - 167 

Where braving angry Winter's Storms, - - 168 
My Mary, ------- ib. 

O, wert Thou in the Cauld Blast, - - - 169' 

Delia, - 170 

For a' that, and a' that, ----- 171 

The Blue-Eyed Lassie, ----- 172 

The Lovely Lass of Inverness, - - - - 173 

Gloomy December, ------ ib. 

Inscription for an Altar to Liberty, - - - 174 

Song, ---175 

Castle Gorden, ------- 176 

To Ruin, 177 

Caledonia, --------178 



CONTENTS. Kl 

Page 
Song, ........ 180 

Song, -------..181 

Song, ---183 

Song, -------- -184 

Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, 185 

Halloween, -------- 191 

Her Flowing Locks, - ----- 200 

The Humble Petition of Bruar Water, - - 201 
Lines on scaring some Water Fowl, - - 204 
Lines written with a Pencil, &c, - 206 

Lines written with a Pencil, &c, - 207 

Lines written on the birth of a posthumus child, 208 
Lines written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, - - 209 
Lines on reading of the death of John M'Leod, 211 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, &c, - - 212 
Lines on the death of a Lap-Dog, &c, - - 214 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, - - 215 

The Holy Fair, - 218 

The Ordination, ------- 227 

Address to the Deil, - - ----- 231 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, ----- 236 

The Auld Farmer's New Year Salutation, &c, - 238 
To a Mouse, ------- 242 

To a Louse, ------- 244 

Address to Edinburgh, ----- 246 

The Epitaph, ------- 248 

A Dream, - - 249 

Sketch, --------254 

The Vowels, ------- 255 

Epitaph on a Friend, ------ '256 

A Prayer in the Prospect of Death, - - 257 
Liberty, -------- 258 

Scots Prologue, ------- 259 

Epistle to Dr. Blacklock, ----- 261 

Imitation of an oid Jacobite Song, - - - 264 
Song of Death, ----- 265 

The Rights of Woman, ----- 266 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq., 268 



The Lament. ...... .373 

Lines to a Gentleman, &cc, - 275 

To J. Laipraik, ------- 276 

To the Rev. John M'Maith, 298 

To Terraughty, on his Birth Day, - - - 282 

Verses to L. Ranken, .... - 283 

On the Battle of Sheriff-Muir, &x., 284 

To Robert Graham, Esq., - 286 

The Epitaph, ----.-- 48? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



TAM O' SHA.NTER. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter. 
(Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

(13) 



14 BURNS'S POEMS. 

O Tarn! had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ; 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken bellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober, 
That. ilka meider, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Deon ; 
Or catch' d wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen' d sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither, 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better: 



BURNS S POEMS. ID 

The landlady and Tarn grew gracious; 
Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure- 
Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melt for ever; 
Or like the borealis race, 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm, — 
Nae man can tether time or tide. 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he tak's the rosrtOfl^ 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. \ 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep and lang the thunder bellow'd : 



16 BURNS' 8 POEMS. 

That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skilpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet.' 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil !— 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance 
Nae cotillon brent new frae Francs, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life an' mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantraip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By whom heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns j 
A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 



18 BTJRNS's POEMS. 

A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawful'. 

As Tammie glower'd, amaz'd and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious, 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, Tarn ! had they been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
These breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a fool, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder dinna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 



BURNS S POEMS. 

That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and beer, 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cuttie sark, o' Paisly ham, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches— 

But here my muse her wing maun cour { 
Sic flights are far beyond her povv'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
A souple jade she was, and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very e'en enrich'd, 
Even Satan glower'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty sark !' 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 



20 BUR-TS'S POEMS. 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When, " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud. 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and holloo. 

Ah Tarn ! ah, Tarn! thou'll get thy fairie! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin : 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle : 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



burnb's poems. 21 



THE TWA DOGS, 



Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather' d ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cmsar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he wasnane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride, na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Sae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae buddie, 
But he wad stawn't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 



22 BURNs'S POEMS. 

Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luaih ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang, 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As every lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt fac\ 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social nose whyles snufFd and snowkit, 
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
An' worry'd ither in diversion; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe thye sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o 1 the creation. 

CMSA.H. 

I've often wonder' d honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have. 
An' when the gentry's life I saw 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents, 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 



BURNS S POEMJ. 

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bo/inie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yallow letter' d Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechim, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wooner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 



Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; 
A cottar howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee dubbie weans, 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 



24 BURNS 's POEMS. 

Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld an,' hunger ; 
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' b'uirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huffd, and cuffd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, an sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble. 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ? 



They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think, 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 

They're sae accustomed wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies' them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' thy' fatigued wi* close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prating things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mend the Kirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lorion. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 



26 BORNS'S POEMS. 

The Iuntin' pipe, an' seeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid' will 
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,— 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barket wi' them, 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
- Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parlimentin', 
For Britain's guid' his saul indentin' — 

CffiSAB. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain'' s guid ! guid faith I doubt it ; 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying aye or no? s they bid him, 
At operas an' plays parading, 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in .a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
So make a tour, an' take a whirl, 
To learn ban ton, an' see the warl'. 

There at Vienna or Versailles 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 

To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nout ; 

Or down Italian vista startles, 

Lass-hunting among groves o' myrtles 

Then bouses drumly German water, 

To make himself look fair and fatter, 

An' clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 

Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang the gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' kintra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin o' their timmer, 
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, 
Orshootin o' a hare or moor cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Catsar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na' fear them. 



BURNS 8 POEMS. 



L — d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 
A kintra fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy : 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, their balls, and races, 
Their gallopping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in ieep debauches ; 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 

Ae night they're madwi' drink an' roaring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
They sip the scandal portion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmers stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ! 
The hum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin !' the loan; 
When up they % gat, and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come , 

In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



80 BTJRNS'S F0EM3. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil won-crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek ; 
The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tic, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the 

rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; 



burns' S POEMS. 31 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about s 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he kneto not where nor why :) 
The drowsey Donjon-clock had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true. 
The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding roar, 
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree ; 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering 

stream. — 
When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare ; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr presid 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the 6pir'tual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

then, 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken them J 



32 BURNS 's P0EM8. 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lorion, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guideen : — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, frien', ye' 11 think ye're nae sheep 

shanc, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank, 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day, I doubt , ye'li never see, 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 



Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 
meet. 



BTJims's POEMS. 33 

Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane in' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' moderu time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat- 

stream, 
Tho' they should cast the very sark an' swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIO. 

Conceited gowk ! puff'd up wi' windy pride! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform you better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a' -day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, [course. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moreland 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gale : 
And from Glenbuck, down to the Rotton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies : 

3 



34 BURNS S POEMS. 

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIO. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must 
say't o't 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ' 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air or sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mansion, reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, 
Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection. 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 35 

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town, 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots holp forth a plain braid story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; [Barbers, 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by 
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d — d new 
Brigs and Harbours: ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 
enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak' to through. 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle. 



36 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But under favor o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might well be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag- wits na mair can hae a handle 
To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal. 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; [raisins, 
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hopes an' 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once betray'd 

them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 

What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear' d in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the watery glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
W r hile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M' Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage 
When thro' his dear Stratki-peys they bore with 
Highland rage, 



BURNS S POEMS. 37 

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear' d, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; ' 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief ad vane' d in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown' d, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath' d with nodding corn ; 
Then Winter's time-bleach' d locks did hoary 

show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A /emale form, came from the towers of Stair: 
Reaming and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Last, white-robed Peace, crovvn'd with a hazel 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath [wreath, 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- 
dling wrath. 



TO MARY. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, 
Across th* Atlantic's roar ? 

sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
And the apple on the pine ; 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow I 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that, shall part us, 

The hour, and the moment o' time. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



PHILLIS THE FAIE. 

While larks with little wing, 

P'ann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn : did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there ; 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 
• Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 



BUKNS 8 POEMS. 



THE LEA-RIO. 

When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks, 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkesl glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'e,r be eerie, O, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, 0, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It mak's my heart sae cheery, 0, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 



O saw ye bonnie Lesley 
As she gaed o'er the border ? 

She's gaen, like Alexander, 
To spread her conquests farther. 

<nTo see her is to love her,V^ 
2> And love but her for ever ; 
^For Nature made her what she is, 
\And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee j 

He'd look into the bonnie face, 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



42 BURNS 'S POEMS. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drum lie ! 
There simmer first unfaulds her robes, 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0, my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
An' mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



JESSIE. 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

0, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring : 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger J 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



44 BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

*Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 
The Zephyr wantoned round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanced to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild, 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ' 



BURNS S POEMS. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep ; 

Or downward seek the Indian mine , 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



SONG. 



Here's a bottle and an honest friend ; 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man ;-— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not aye when sought, man. 



46 BURNS'S POEMS. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 

Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn, 

O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 

Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 

Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last! 

Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green : 

The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene. 

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 

The birds sang love on every spray, 

Till too, too soon, the glowing west, 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care I 



BURiVS'S POEMS. 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear, 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather; 

But Yarrow braes nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

An' I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tho' I hae nae melkie tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our flocks by Galla water, 

Xt ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
Thp f coft contentment, peace, or pleasure, 

The La.uds and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the cheifest warld's treasure ! 



^8 BURNS's POEMS. 



. LORD GREGORY. 

Mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 

And loud the tempest roar 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door, 

An exile frae her father's ha', 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may na be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove 

By honnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How often didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for ay be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love. 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



BURNS 3 POEMS. 



WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS 
BLAWN. 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning, 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia's hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft 1 courted; 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 
4 



EURNS 8 POEMS. 

Wi' alter' d voice, quoth I. sweet lass, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom. 
O ! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang, 

Take pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never. 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye' re welcome for the sake o't. 

She gaz'd — she redden' d like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily ; 

She sank within my arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 

By him who made yon sun and sky-j^ 
By whom true love's regarded, , 

I am the man ; and thus may still J, 

S True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 
And find thee still true-hearted ; 

Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 
And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Quo' she, my grandsire left me gown, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main 
7 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

CThe sodger's wealth is honor. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittle, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 
But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinkin', wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak' a fen' ; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drummeller, 
" Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben: 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 



52 BURNS'S POEMS. 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me : 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen t 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him, 
O wha will I get but Tarn Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mougled a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tarn Glen*. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken 

Kis likeness cam' up the house staukin 
And the very gray breeks o' Tarn Glervi 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tarn Gferu 



EURNs's POEMS. 53 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO„ 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent ; 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your tocks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 
John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We"ve had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand and hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar, 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 



54 BURNS 's POEMS. 



O. WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL1 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee, 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, 
My muse's maun be thy bonnie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Trjpn come sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say, 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips,' thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a field, at hame, 

The thoughts o r thee my breast inflame ; 

And ay I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thee. 
( Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
"Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 

Till my last weary sand was run ; 
Till then — and then I love thee. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



AULD ROB MCltitlS. 



There's auld Rob Morris that wens hi yon glen, 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 
men ; [kine, 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but»a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it would burst in my 

breast. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! 
O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As how my distraction no words can express ! 



56 BURNS'S POEMS. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever with my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her iff the tuneful birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw, or green., 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill nas gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 57 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridal, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, 
But, gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



THE NORTHERN LASS. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

Far as the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains rise, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

1 still would love my Jean. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds my bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks hindly in the biel', 
Where blith I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale, 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The patrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and i'ess to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel ? 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie, 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for hitr 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny, 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune may try. 
Ye're like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye' 11 like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



60 BURNS'S POEMS. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; . 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will r 
Out spak' a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O, guid advisement comes nae ill. 

"It's ye hae wooers mony ane, 

And lassie, ye're but young ye ken : 
Then wait a wee, and cannie walei, 

And routhie but, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae well his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robbie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 



BURNS'S POEMS. I 

*' O thoughtless lassie, life's a faugl t : 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu 1 han't is feohtin best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare t 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 91 

O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye : 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve, 

The govvd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robbie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

What mair hae queens upon a throne. 



Tho' cruel fate should bid us pari, 

As far's the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howfl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love ;ny Jean. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



FAIR ELIZA. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithful heart I 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise. 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 

And drooping rich the dewy head. 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 

A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 

The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 

Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents the early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 

And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watch'd the early morning. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



MARY MORISON. 

mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor, 
How bliihly wad I bide the stoure 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the tr«embling string 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only fault is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 

At least be pity on me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



LONG, LONG THE NIGHT. 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my souVs delight, 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care ? 

Can I cease to languish, 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish t 

Every hope is fled, 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Every dream is horror. 

Hear me, Power's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR 

Wha is that at my ■ ower door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate ye' re nae be here 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What ;/iak ye sae like a thief ? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay, 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief ? 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in. quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower, 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay 1 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Yestreen- I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks cf Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hiney bliss * 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Sayanna ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress of Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna, 

Awa thou flounting god o' day! 

Awa thou pale Dianna ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna! 



BURNs's POEMS. 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flowa 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling : 

Condemn'dto drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vain, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, the' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 

1 know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me; 
Th' unweary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors sink at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 69 



It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn , 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe: 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radient eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe, 
Lovely was she, $c. 



BURNS 8 P0EM8. 



BANNOCK-BURN . 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power 
Edward ! chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Traitor ! coward, turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ; on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free? 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



BURNS'8 POEMS. 71 



SONG. 



Husband, husband, cease your strife 
Nor longer idly rave, Sir ; 

Tho' I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 

" One of two must still obey 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord. 

And so, good b'yeallegience ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break, it must, 

My last hour I'm near it ; 
When you lay me in the dust 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

"I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy." 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

UP in the morning's nafor me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they fare but sparely ; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



SURNS'S POEMS. 1J 



By Allan stream ! I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benieddi ;* 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang— 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie I 

0, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogie makes it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She. sinking, said, "I'm thine forever I" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flpcks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow : 
But. can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 

* A mointain west of Straith Allan, 3,000 feet high. 



K URNS' S POEMS. 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU MY LAD. 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come, &c, 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o'your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care nae for me, 
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee : 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear &c. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



FAREWELL TO AYR. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must bare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not the fatal deadly shore ; 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear ; 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



76 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Farewell, old Colicfs hills and dales, 
Her healthy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes were wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my faea \ 
My peace with those, my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare, 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. 



ELIZA. 

From thee Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar ; 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine the latest sigh'. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 77 



O logan, sweetly didst thou glide; 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne has o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 
Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs, 
The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs ; 
Blithe, morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy: 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile, 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes! 



BURNS .S POEMS. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
Sad Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav' rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded grove Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the while, 
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair : 
Ye birdies dump, in with'ring bowers 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ? sweet Ballochmyle. 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 



COLIN'S JENNY. 



My lady's gown there's gairs upon 't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon 't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinel, 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon 't. 

My lord a-hunting he i3 gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane 
By Colin' s cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude, 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's dresr, 
The flower and fancy o' the west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 



SO BUKNS'S POEMS. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 



Robin shure in hairst 

I shure wi' him, 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick 

And me the eller's dochterf 

Robin prornis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers one summer's dav 

For summer lightly dress'd, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep oppress'd ; 
When Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favor oft had su'd, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose, 
Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press'd, 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace, 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A flattering ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 
6 



(3 BURNS S POEMS. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear inspired wings ; 
So Nelly startling, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willy follow'd as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood, 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

Wes Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Peel a willow- wand to be him boots and jacket ; 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

doublet, 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

doublet. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Twice a lily flower will be in him sark and cravat : 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 



BURNS'S POEMS. 83 



EVAN BANKS. 



Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires; 
To Evan banks with temperate ray 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye ! 
Does she with heart unchang'd as mine 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
All that on Evan's border springs? 
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde 



84 BURNS 'S POEMS. " 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ? 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasure bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde, 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 

leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel ; 
Such witching books, are baited-hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel, 
They heat your brains, and fire your ve»ns, 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart that warmly seems to feel; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel, 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 85 



FARE THEE WEEL. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? „ 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure 1 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



BURNS 8 POEMS. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 



Now spring has clad the groves in green. 

And strew' d the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout within yon wimplin burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joys consume. 



BURNS S POEMS. W 

The waken' d lav'rock warbling springs 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reck! I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O, witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

O had my fate been Greenland snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd know ? 
The wreich whase doom is, " hope nae mair." 

What tongue his woes can fell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SONG 

Out over the Forth I look to the north. 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 

The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, [be ! 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AW A. 
O how can I be blithe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 

Is o'er the hills and far awa? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 
My friends they hae disown' d me a* 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 
And silken snoods he gave me twa 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will deed the birken-shaw; 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
Aid heT. come home that's far awa. 



burns' S POEMS. 89 



YOUNG PEGGY. 



Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer die has grac'd them, 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather' d pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming Spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Detraction's eyes no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen: 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison' d tooth to fasten. 



BURNS S TOSM8. 

Y"e pow'rs of Honor, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favor'd youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



O GUID ALE COMES. 

guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

1 had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' weel enough, 

I sell'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done. 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the boons beware Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 



92 BURNS's POEMS. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brotner, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be darnn'd together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



MARY'S E'E. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 

The child wha' boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care : 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range my Cassillis' banks, 

Wi* her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



AFTON WATER. 



Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the 

glen 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming 

forbear 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, 
Far mark d wi' courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lofty it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 
clear wave. 



94 bfrns's POEMS. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright I red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her gently waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the banda t 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a' 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



burns' s poems. 95 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane; 

And with him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e f 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be* 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockey's heart is still at harne. 



BURNS 'S POEM*. 



To the shade of Thomson ; on crowning his butt 
at Ednam Roxburghshire, with bays. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood 
Or tunes iEolian strains between : 

While summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dayburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops, to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade ; 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
By Tweed erects his aged head, 

And sees with self-approving mind, 
Each creature on his bounty fed : 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows, 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well has won» 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



BmtNs's POEMS. 97 



LINES. 

On the first six verses of the ninetieth psalm. 

O thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human raoe ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself, 

Arose at thy command : 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seems to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Ts to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelming sweep. 
7 



BURNS S ?©£■*. 



They flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride array'd : 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 

I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweeth, 
Thy favors are the silly wind 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, 
Like ony common weed and yile. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



99- 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou le' me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ! 
Or if thou wilt nae be my ain 
Say na thou' It refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower 
All underneath the birchin shade, 

The village- bell has toll'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid ? 



Jt- 



100 BUBNS'S POEMS. 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale ; 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



BONNIE PEG. 

As I cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary : 
wha cam tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 

Wi' na proportion wanting : 
The queen of love, did never move, 

Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands, 

A down yon winding river, 
And, Oh ! that hour and broomy bower 

Can I forget it ever ? 



BURKS'S POEMS. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 
O, my luve's like a red, red rose, 

That's newly sprung in June : 
O, my luve's like the melodie 

That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 
I will love thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



LOUIS. WHAT RECK I BY THEE 
Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Georgie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 
Let me crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me: 
Kings and nations, swith awa! 

Reif randies, I disown ye ! 



302 BURNS 'S POEMS. 



Let not woman e'er complain, 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

Fickle man is apt to rove ; 
Look abroad through Nature's range, 

Nature's mighty law is change; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 

Man should then a monster prove. 
Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 
Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — 

You can be no more, you know. 



SONG. 
Yon wandering rill, that marks the hill, 

And glances o'er the brae, Sir 
Slides by a bower where mony a flower 

Shades fragrance on the day Sir. 
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay ; 

To love they thought nae crime, Sir, 
The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 

While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



•B¥*K* S POEMS, 



FOR THE SAKE O' SOMEBODY. 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 

I could wake a winter night 

For the sake o' somebody. 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 

I could range the world around. 

For the sake o' somebody. 
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love 

sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 

And send me safe my somebody ! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 

1 wad do — what wad I not ? 

For the sake o' somebody ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE MY PARENTS. 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy boody, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 



104 burns' S POEMS. 

The ravening hawk pursuing, 
The trembling dove thus flies, 

To shun impelling ruin 
Awhile her pinions tries, 

Till of escape despairing. 
No shelter or retreat, 

She trusts the ruthless falconer 
. And drops beneath his feet. 



A MOTHERS LAMENT. 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart ; 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart, 
By cruel hands the saplin drops, 

In dust dishonor'd laid! 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the life-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

W'th him I love, at rest ! 



BURNS'S P0EM3. 



ENGLISn SONG. 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

wert thou, love, but near me, 
But near, near, near me ; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, . 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
The blast each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart 
And say that fate is mine, love. 

But dreary though the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ? 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, leve. 



106 EURNS's POEMS 



O lassie art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit t 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hears' t the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
let me in, (J-c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
let me in, $c. 






BURNs's POEMS. 107 



O, WAT YE WHA S IN YON TOWN ? 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 
Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 

She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 
How blest ye flow'rs that round her bla* . 

Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year ? 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms, 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky 

My cave wad be a lovers bower,, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 



108 burns' S POEMS. 

O, sweet is she m yon town, 
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ! 

A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn by foe, 
And suffering I am doom'd to bear 

I careless quit aught else below. 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
As thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

A.nd she — as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

may, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 

And here's to them that, like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them : 

And here's to them, we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 



BURNS S POEKS. 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE. 

Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye, 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye, 

Oh, Jenny's a' weet, poor body. 
Jenny's seldom dry: 

She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the glen : 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need the warld ken, 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 



110 BURNS's POEMS. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

There were three kings into the east. 

Three kings both great and high, 
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn should di6. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on 

And show'rs began to fall, 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed sphere, 

That no one should him wrong. 

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, 

When he grew wan and pale ; 
His bending joints and drooping head 

Show'd he began to fail. 

His color sicken' d more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 






BURNS's POEMS. Ill 

They've ta'en a weapon lang and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty'd him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgell'd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They fill'd up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther wo, 
And still as sign of life appear' d, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 

And drank it round and round ; 
And still the more and more they drank, 

Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For ii you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 



112 BURNS'* tOEMS. 

'Twill make a man forget his wo; 

'Twill heighten all his joy ; 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great prosperity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland! 



POLLY STEWART. 

lovely Polly Stewart, 

O charming Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it : 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart, 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Po'ly Stewart ! 



BTJBS**8 POEMS. US 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and spreading tree, 

There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught of nine, 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 

And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 

But to my heart i'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers : 
While bees rejoice in opening flowers ; 

While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 

8 



14 BURNS S POEMS. 

ON A SCOTCH BARD. 

Gone to the West Indies. 
A' Ye wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live an never think, 

Come mourn wi' me ! 
Our lime's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye ratin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry -roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him ; 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e. 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, 
That's owre the sea. . 

O Fortune they hae room to grumble ? 
Had'st thou ta'en affsome drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been, nae plea, 
But he was gleg as Gny wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld, Cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear, 
In flinders flee : 



BURNS S POEMS. 

He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

I'll may she be 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 
To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drum mock, 
Wi' his proud, independent stomaeh, 

Could ill agree; 
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 
He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it neer was under hiding ; 

He delt it free. 
The muse was a' that he took pride in. 

That's owre the sea. 
Jamaica bodies., use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cazie biel ; 
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel, 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deii, 

That's owre the sea. 
Fareweei my rhyme-composing billie i 
Your native soil was right ill- willie ; 
But may ye florish like a lilly, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



lift BURNS'S POEMS. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray' d deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempest o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave I 



J 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing 

Busy haunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes, softly blowing, 

Suit not my distraeted mind. 
In the cause of right engaged 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honor's war we strongly waged 

But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us— 
But a world without a friend ! 



SONG. 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
My stem was fair, my bud was green 

My blossom sweet did blow ; O 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow ; O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossom's low, O 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossom's low, O 



118 BUENS's POEMS. 



My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'; 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blithe, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn? 

The shepherd, in the. flowery glen, 
In shepherd's phrase will woo; 

The courtier tells a finer tale, 
But is his heart as true ? 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to dear 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love. like mine. 



i 



BURNS S POEMS. 



SHE SAYS SHE LOE'S ME BEST OF A*. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching, 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo : 
What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

When first her bonnie face I saw; 
And ay my Chloris, dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 
Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form, and graceful air 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair; 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she loe's me best of a' 

Let others love the city, 
And gaudy show at sunny noon; 



120 BURKS'S W)EMS. 

Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon ; 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' ! 



THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age : 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
On, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE. 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav' rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

Phosbus gilding the brow o' morning, 

Banishes ilk darksome shade, 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when, in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



122 BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND RO\ Ett 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizen, 

Since my young Highland Rove- 
Far wanders nations over. 

Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 
May Heaven be his warden : 

Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon! 

The trees now naked groaning, 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blithly singing, 
And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-long day 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strafhspe? 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 123 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAL. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 
Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wife was dour and din, 

Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

1 wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an e'e, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very color; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 

A whisken beard about her mou', 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter : 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, 
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin, 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 



124 burns' s poems. 

Her walie nieves like middea-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- Water : 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad nae gie a button for her. 



DUMOURIER. 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — 
How does Dampiere do ! 
Ay, and Bournonville too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, Dum- 
ourier ? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier. — 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier: — 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chauce with you ; 
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dum- 
ourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be damned no doubt — Dumourier. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 



Young- Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town. or here awa; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae gently sraa' ; 
An' ay rny heart came to my mou', 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's ovvsen hameward ca*, 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he tak's me a' : 
And ay he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



AUTUMN RAMBLE. 



Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 
Arnang the blooming heather ; 



126 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : 
Thro' lofty groves the chushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush overhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social joy, and leagues combine : 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring glory pinion ? 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow ; 
Come let us stray our gladsome, way, 

And view the charms of nature; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 



BTJKNS'S POEMS. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs; 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they alf decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



128 BURNS'S POEMS. 



SONG. 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Seyer'd from thee can I strive ? 

But fate has will'd and we must part. 
I'll often greet its surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en her I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 
W r hile thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans 

Wad muve the very heart's o' stanesl 



BURNS 'S P0EM8. 



POOR MAN'S SONG. 



My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border, O 
And carefully he bred me in decency and 

order, O 
He bade me act a manly part, though I had 

ne'er a farthing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man 

was worth regarding, 0. 

Then out into the world my course I did deter 

mine, O 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be 

great was charming, O 
My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 

my education ; O 
Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my 

situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted 
fortune's favour ; O 

Some cause unseen, still stept between, to 
frustrate each endeavour ; O 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken ; O 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was 
worst mistaken, O 
9 



130 BURNs's POEMS. 

Then sore harass' d, and tir'd at last, with for- 
tune's vain delusion, O 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 
came to this, conclusion ; 

The past was bad, and the future hid; its good 
or ill untried ; O 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so 
would enjoy it, O 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person 

to befriend me : 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour * 

to sustain me, O 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my 

father bred me early ; O 
For one, he said, to labor bred, was a match 

for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* 
life I'm doom'd to wander, O 

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 
slumber : O 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 
bred me pain or sorrow ; O 

I live to-day, as weel's I may, regardless of to- 
morrow O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in 

a palace, O 
Tho fortune's frown still hunts me down, with 

all her wonted malice : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 131 

I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can 

make it farther ; O 
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much 

regard her, O 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little 
money, O 

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally 
upon me ; 

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 
nature's folly ; 

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er 
be melancholy, O 

All you who follow wealth and power with un- 
remitting ardour, O 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 
your view the farther ; O 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to 
adore you, O 

A cheerful-hearted honest clown I will prefer 
before you, 0. 



132 BURNS'S POEMS. 



FOR A' THAT AND A» THAT, 

Is there, for honest poverty 

That hangs his head and, a' that ; 

The coward -slave, we pass him by, 
We dare be poor for a' that ; 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that, 

The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

• The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely frae we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their sticks, and knaves their wine 

A man's a' man for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see you birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts and stears and a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that ; 
For a' that and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of Independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that : 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree and a' that. . 
For a' that and a' that, 

It's comin yet for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



-4- 



SONG. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death, Only should 

us sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay — I maun see thee 

never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 



134 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo, While my heart is 

breaking. 
Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair to 

waken, Jamie. 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me 

Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 






BUENS'S POEMS. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 

And never brought to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And days o' lang syne ? 

CHOBUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot, 

Sin auld lang syne 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Fra mornin sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne, 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yer, 

For auld lang syne. 



136 BUKNS'S POEMS. 



HEY FOR A LASS WP A TOCHER. 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms , 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
0, gie me the lass wi' the weel stokit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wV a tocher, then hey for a 

lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice 

yellow guiniesfor me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

And e'en when the beauty your bosom hae 
blest, 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possess! 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest, 

The langer ye hae them — the mair they're 
carest. 



BURNS's POEMS. 137 



DREAM BOOK. 



Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ? 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear. 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 



SONG. 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire ; 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But ah ! how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair, 
So much in sight of Heav'n. 



138 BURNS'S POEMS. 



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clowden's woods amang 
Then a-fauldinglet us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Co* them where the heather grows, 
Ca 1 them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gaedown by Clowden side, 
• Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hour, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor dogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heav'n sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart, 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han\ 
In ev'ry hour that passes, ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, 0, 



Green grow the rashes, ! 

Green grow the rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, ! 

The warly race may riches, chase. 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'er nought but senseles asses O ; 

The wisest man the warP e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 



140 1 PRNS'S POEMS. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go will ye go, 
Bonnielassie, will ye go, tothebirks of Aberfeldy 1 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flower 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi ? misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 



a 



burns' s poems. 141 



SONG. 



Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 
I ever mair defy them, O ; 

Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

An' Til kiss the o'er again, 

An' Til kiss thee yet yet, 
My honnie Peggy Alison ! 

When in my arms, wi' a thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ! 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O* 

And by thy e'en sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O ; 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 
And break it shall I never, ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

Yestree I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But faint a hair care I. 



Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would nae been sae shy / 

For laik 0' gear ye lightly me, 
But, trouth, I care na by. 

1 d(fubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy qeeen 
That looks sae proud and high. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart 
If that he want the ye how dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a briar, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 142 

But, Tibbie? lass, tak my advice, 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice f 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There livep a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark, 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark ? 
Ye need na look sae high. 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie, 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry J 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary, 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready : 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody : 
But i'ts not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving me my bonnie Mary. 



144 BURNS'S POEMS. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green spreading bowers, 
And gow comes in my happy hours : 
To wauder wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 
There Til spend the day wV you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. 
The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blawi 

A wandering wi' my Davie. 
When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 

To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I loe's best, 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knovoe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, ' 

There Til spend the day wV you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 






BURNS S POEMS. 



Thine am I, my faithful fair 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy, 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish ; 

Tho' despair had wrung its core. 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips, 
Rich with balmy treasure ; 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



10 



146 BTJRNS's POEMS. 



AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DO AT, 

Again rejoicing nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 



And maun I still on Me?iie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e / 

For it's jet black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An* it's winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry plough boy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman, stalks, 

(But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks^ 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the duckling cry» 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And everything is blest but l,y 



BTJRNs's POEMS. 147 

The Bheep-herd steeps his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I met him on the dewey hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A wo- worm ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e 

For it's get black, an' it's like a hawk, 
An' it winna let a body be. 



THE WOOD-LARK. 

O stat, sweet warbling wood-lark stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 



148 BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' wo could wauken, 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, naemair! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



SONG. 



One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to show,- 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree root ; 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas, 
A cushat crowded o'er me, 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



BURNS's POEMS. 149 



Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measured time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 
He marks his latest sun, 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

To thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
How blest my glorious day ; 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



150 burns' S POEMS. 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till 'tween the late and early ; 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 

To see me thro' the barley, 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely : 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

My heart was beating rarely: 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley, 



BURNS S POEMS. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin : 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin : 
But a the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs, an? barley rigs, 
An 1 corn rigs are bonnie : 

Nl ne 1 er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 



Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me ; 
Now nae longer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish sieze me, 



BURNS S FOEMS. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring: 
Trembling I dow nocht but glow'i, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ! 
Underneath the grass green-sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Meggy was my care. 
Heav'n, I thought, was in the air; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave on't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
— Wiser men then me's beguil'd ; 

Whistle o'er the lave on't. 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care nae by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
What I wish were maggot's meat, 
Diss'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't, 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 



BURNs's POEMS. 153 



SONG. 



Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretches destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long, 

On yonder gallows tree. 



Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; 
He played a spring and dancd it round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath?— 

On inony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ? 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've live'd a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie ! 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dare not die. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



LASSIE WP THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS. 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee ; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thoul't be my dearie, ? 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wV the lint-white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou V)V me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou be my dearie, ! 

And when the welcome simmer-shower, 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie, 0. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 

The weary shearer's hameward way, 

Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 

And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

Lassie wi' the lint-v)hite locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

Wilt thou bf- my dearie. ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair 

At kirk, or market to be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark ; 

And ay she sang sae merrilie, 
The blithest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tanner joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flow'rs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young robbie was the bravest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang are witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream, 
The moon beam dwells at dewy e'en; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



156 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And now she warks her mammie's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what her all might be, 
Or what wad mak her weel again. 

But did nae Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And did nae joy blink in her e'e, 

As robbie tauld her a tale o' love, 
Ae e'enin on the lilly lea ? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 
And whispered thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

O canst thou think to fancy roe ! 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me? 

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent, the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na ! 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was ay between them twa. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE. 

The bairns get out wi' an unco shout, 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, ! 
The fient ma care, quo the feirie auld wife 

He was but a paidlin body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in, 

An' he paidles late an' earlie, O : 
This seven lang years I hae lain by his side 

An' he is but a fusionless earlie, O. 

haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife, 

O haud your tongue now, Nansie, : 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O ! 
I've seen the day yebutter'd my brose, 

And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O : 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, Oh, I find it sairly, ! 



158 BURNS's POEMS. 



SONG. 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 

Ye wreck my peace between ye j 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An' 'twere na for my Jeanie, 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest hands untwining ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining ! 

This warld's wealth when I think on, 
Its pride, and a' the lave o't, 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 

Her e'en sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 

O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon 

And sae in love as I am ? 

How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 

He woes his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogies wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



O why should fate sic pleasure have. 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 

at my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife she bang'd me ; 

If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Good faith she'll soon o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 
And fool I was I marry'd ; 

But never honest man's intent 
As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sairie comfort still at last, 
When a' their days are done, man 

My pains o' hell on earth is past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon man. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face. 
And the glancin of her sparklin e'en. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between. 

And shoots its head above each bush, 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

She's spotless as the fiow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so green. 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb. 

When flowery may adores the scene, 
That wantons round its bleating dam ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain side at e'en, 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 



BURNS's POEMS. • 161 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush, 
That sings in Cossnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 

With fleeces newly washen clean, 
That slowly mount the rising steep ; 

An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze, 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas, 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin e'en. 
11 



162 BURNS'S POEMS. 



Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wV your belles and your beauties, 

They never wV her can compare ; 
Whatever has met wV my Phillis, 

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's child. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charms, 
Her sweet balmy lip when tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lilly, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, [grove, 
That wakes through the green-spreading 

When Phrebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure and love. 



BURNS 5 S POEMS. 

But beauty-how frail and how fleeting 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will florish without a decay. 



THE DAY RETURNS MY BOSOM BURNS. 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet 
Than a', the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Heaven gave me more — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss, — it breaks my heart. 



164 BURNS'S POEMS. 



O THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSiE, 

I see a form, I see a face, 

Ye weel may wi, the fairest place ; 
It wants to me the witching grace, 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 



this is my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall 
And lang hae had my heart in thrall : 

And ay it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a' blink, by a' unseen; 

But gleg as light are lovers e'en, 
When kind love is in the e'e. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks, 

But weal the watching lover marka 
The kind love that's inhei>e'e. 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 165 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The binding sleet and snaw ; 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 

I The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,** 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My grief it seems to join. 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine. 

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny 

Assist me to resign. 



166 BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



SONG. 

How long and dreary is the night 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 



For oh, her lanely nights are lang 
And oh, her dreams sae eerie ; 

And oht her widow' d heart is sair, 
That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lithsome days 
I spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now wha seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie ? 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
The joyless day how dreary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by, 
When I was wi' my dearie. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor form the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And like the rootless stubble tost, 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore, 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked man 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 






BURNS S POEMS. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY .WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes, 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd doubly marks its beam, 

With arts most polish'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester' d shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd. 

When first 1 felt that pow'r, 
The tyrant death with grim controul 

May sieze my fleeting breath : 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death, 



MY MARY. 

Powers celestial, whose protection, 
Ever guards the virtuous fair, 

While in distant climes I wander, 
Let my Mary be your care ; 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 16! 

Let her form sae fair and faultless, 
Fair and faultless'as your own ; 

Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 
Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast : 
Breathing in the breeze that fane her 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home.* 



O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea; 
My plaidle to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a' to share it a'. 

* Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve cf 
the Poet's departure to the West Indies. 






170 BURNs's POEMS. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there,. If thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign 
The brightest jewel in my crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



Fair the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on my ear. 

The fiower-enamou'r'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss, 

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 171 



FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT. 

1 am a bard of no regard, 
Wi' gentlefolks and a' that ; 

But Homer- like, the glowran pyke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's a' that ; 

I've had but ane, Pve twa behin', 
Tve wife enough for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank. 

Castalia's burn and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

In raptures sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that ;. 

But for how lang the flie may stang 
Let inclination law that. 



172 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 
They're ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex !' 
I like the jads for a that. 

For a 1 that, and a' that, 

And twice as meikle's d that : 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till' t, for a' that. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I gaed a warn' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew, 
Her heaving bosom lilly-white ; 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'dshe smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue, 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She aiblins listen to my vow ; 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my head 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 




BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE LOVELY LASS OP INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ? 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And ay she saut tear bliss her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee, 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Anoe mairl hail thee, thou gloomy December 
Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 

Sad was the parting thou makes me remember 
Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



174 BURNS's PJEMS. 

Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 

But the dire feeling, farewell for ever, 
Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone, 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remem- 
ber, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair 



INSCRIPTION. 

For an Altar to Liberty. 

Thou of an Independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resigned ; 

Prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave 

Thou wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone doest fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



BURNS's POEMS. 175 



O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her stiil, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, • 

Both descent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 
May slightly touch the heart, 

Bit it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 



176 BURKS' S POEMS. 



CASTLE GORDEN. 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 
Thee, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly lavea 
The banks, by Castle Gorden, 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave. 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms by Castle Gorden. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling, soul, 
She plants the forest, pours the flood ; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle Gorden. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mighties empires fall ! 
Thy cruel wo-delighted train, 
The minis'ers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye. 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart, 
Then low'ring, and pouring, 
The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick' ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 
And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd 
While life a pleasure can afford, 
Oh ! hear a wretches pray'r ; 
No more I shrink appall'd afraid 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbing cease, 
Cold moul'dring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face : 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! \2 



178 BURNS's POEMS. 



CALEDONIA. 

There was once a day, but old time then was 

young, 
That brave Caledonia the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt or to pasture, or do what she would : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 

good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew ; 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 
" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, the encounter 

shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 

sport, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 

corn? 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 

horn. 

Long quiet she reign' d ; till thitherward stears 
A flight of bold eagles from Africa's stand : 
Repeated successive, for many long years, 
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 179 

Their pounces were murder, and terror their 

cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy raven took wing for the north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the 

shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore ; 
O'er countries and kingdoms the fury prevail'd 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 

repel ; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Chameleon-savagedisturb'd herrepose, 
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, 
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 

life : 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 
Oft powling ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 

flood; 
But taught by the brave Caledonian lance, 
He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and 

free, 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 



180 BURNS'S POEMS. 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun ; 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 
The upright is Chance and old time is the base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypotenuse ; 
Then ergo, shell match them, and match them 
always. 



See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up the chorua. 
And in raptures let us sing. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected, 

Churches built to please the priest. 

What is title ? What is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where \ 

With the ready trick and fable, 
Round we wander all the day j 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our Doxies on the hay. 



BURNS S POEMS. 181 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove ; 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

Here's to budgets, bags and wallets I 
Here's to all the wandering train I 

Here's our raged brats and callets ? 
One and all cry out, Amen ! 



SONG, 



There was a lad born at I£ yle, 
But what na day o' what na style 

I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To ba sae nice wi' Robin. 



Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin 1 rovin' ; rantin' rovin', 
Robin was a ravin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin 1 Rcbin. 






82 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Our monwcn's hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 

'Twas then a blast o' Janwar Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keepit in his loof, 

Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 

I think we r ll ca' him Robin. 

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma' 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 

He'll be a credit till us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin 

But sure as three times three mak nine 

I see by ilka score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin', 

So leeze me on the, Robin. 

Guid faith quo scho I doubt you, Sir, 

Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may hae wee, 

So blessin's on thee, Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Ranlin' rovin', rantin' rovin , 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 183 



Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 
Whene'er 1 forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish 
sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome 

Thought ; 
But man is a soger, and life is a faught ; 
My mirth and guid humor are coin in my pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a', 
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 
past ; 

Blind chance let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way ; 
Be't to me, be't frae me e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travel ; come pleasure or 

pain, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 

again!" 



BURNS S POEMS. 



SONG 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of mj 
care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

here, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the 

air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 

A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 

But the pursey old landlord just waddled up 

stairs 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 



BURNS's POEMS. 185 

'Life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim 

laid down, 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

*Young's Night Thoughts. 



EPISTLE 

To Davie, a brother Poet. 

While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamly westlin jingle. 
"While frosty winds blaw in the drift 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 

That lives sae blen an' snug: 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker, 

To eae their cursed pride. 



186 BURNs's POEMS. 

It's hardly in a body's pow'r, 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands .rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
Were fit to win our daily bread, 

As lang's we're hale and tier : 
" Mair spier na', nor fear na," 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 

Is only for to beg. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When Banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is doubtless, great distress! 
Yet then content could mak us blest: 
Ev'n then someiimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 

Has ay some cause to smile, 
And mind still, you'll find still, 
A comfort this nae sma ; 
Nae mair then, w'll care then, 

Nae farther can we fa'. 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 187 

What tho', like commoners of air, 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 

To see the coming year ; 

On braes when we please, then, 
We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time tilt't 

And sing when we hae done. 

It's no in titels nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in mankin muckle mair ; 
It's no in books ; It's no in lear 

To make us truly blest ; 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 

But never can be blest ; 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 

Could make us happy Iang ! 
The heart ay's the part ay, 

That makes us right or wrang. 



188 BURNS 's TOEMS. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I 
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 

Wi' never-ceasing-toil ; 
Think ye, ar' we less blest then they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ? 

Or else neglecting a' that's guid 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming and dreaming 
It's a' an' idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce, 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortune's come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's than km' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth : 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth. 

The real guid and ill, 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 
Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there 

Ye'll find nae other where. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

But tent me Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a the pleasures o the heart, 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, 

And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, 

And sets me a' on flame ! 

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above 
O Thou, whose very self art love! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 

And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 
O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 

Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear 



190 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Th3 sympathetic glow ; 
Long since this world's thorney ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 

A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 

My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

A maist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rine as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus wid limp, 

Till artce he's fairly het; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt and jimp. 

An' rin an enco fit : 
But least then, the best then 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen' d hide. 



BURNs's POEMS. 19i 



HALLOWEEN. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Vowans dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove, to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night 

Amang the bonnie winding banks, 

Where Voon rins, wimpling clear, 
Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

And shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn the nits, an' pou their stock, 

An' haud their Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, 

Hearts leal, an' warm an' kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted or their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night. 



192 BURNS S POEMS. 

Then hrst and foremost thro' the kail, 

Their stocks moun a' be sought ance ; 
They e'eek their e'en an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro the bow-kail, 
An' pow't for want o' better shift. 

A runt was like a snow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 

Then, straught or crooked, vird or name, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin, 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shoutoers ; 
An' gif the custotf s sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them, 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 
To lie that night. 

The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pou their stalks o' corn ; 
But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses : 
But her tap-fickle maist was lost, 

When kittlin in the fause-house ! 
Wi' him that night. 



BUR.fS S POEMS. 

The auld guidwife's weel horded nits 

Are round and round divided, 
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided ; 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side 

And burn thegither trimly: 
Some start awa wi' saucie pride, 

And jump out ovvre the chimlie 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa, wi* tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel ; 
He bless'd owre her, an' she owre hirn r 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fuff ! he started up the lum, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his how-Jcail runt, 

Was burnt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be cornpar'd to Willie ; 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An' her ain fit it burnt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swore by jing, 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night. 
13 



194 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Nell had the fause house in her min', 

She pits hersel an' Rob in; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 
Nell's heart was dancin at the view ; 

She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't ; 
Rob, stowlins, pric'd her bonnie mien, 

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; 
She lea'es them gashin at their craka, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the bauks, 

And in the blue-clue throws then, 

Right fear't that night 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the Diel himsel, 

Or whether 'twas a bauken, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

Sho did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 



BURNS's POEMS. 195 

Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 
She fufPt her pipe wi' sick a hint, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an azle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear it : 
For monie a ane has gotten a fright. 

An' liv'd and di'd delecret 

On sic a night. 

" Ae hairst before the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weeP yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was nae past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night 



96 BURNS'S POEMS. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fellow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 

That liv'd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was by himsel, 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman rught down the pock, 

An' out a handfu' gied him ; 
Syne bed him slip, frae 'mang the folk 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin ; 
The graip he for a harrow take, 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says. 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee, 
An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night." 



BUANS'S POEMS. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out, 

To hear the sad narration ; 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or cruchie Merean Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain wad to the barn gaen 

To win three wechts o naething ; 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faiih in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vei a night. 



y« BURNS S POEMS. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 

An owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne bauldly in she enters ; 
A rutton rattled up the wa\ 

An' she cry'd L — d preserve her 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 

Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ! 

They hecht him some fine braw.ane; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thrice, 

Was timmer propt far thrawin ; 
He tacks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

Affs nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kirtlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 






BURNS'S POEMS. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie pkys, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whiles in a viel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles gliter'd to the nightly raya, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens, on the brae 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool; 

Neer lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the -pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order on the clean he arth-stane, 

The higgles three are ranged, 
An' ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mar's year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 



I BURNS S POEMS. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary : 
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till hutter'd so'ns, wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted affcareerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling ; 
And round that neck entwine her ! 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou! 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crirrson still diviner. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER* 



TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 

Wo n'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, 1 beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-weathering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet B * * * * came by, 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 

* Bruar Falls in Athole are eiceedingly picturesque 
and beaitiful ; but their effect is nuch impaired by tha 
want of .rees and shrubs. 



202 BURNS'S POEMS. 

A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 
Even as I was he shord'd me • 

But had I in my glory been, 
He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rock*. 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't myself, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll vvander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong the lintwhite clear, 

The marvis mild and mellow; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow : 









BJJRNS S I DEMS. 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield thee from the storm 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of Heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms, 

To screen trie dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse- swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-pending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 



204 BURNs's POEMS. 

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embowering thorn. 
So may, old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honor'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

The social flowing glasses, 
To grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's connie lasses !" 



Lines on scaring some water-fowl in Loch- Turit f 
a wild scene among the hills of Oughtertyre. 

Why. ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ! 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave; 
Or beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock* 



BURNs's POEMS. 

Conscious, blushing for cur race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in freedom's pride, 
Tyrant slern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels. 
But, man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek on clang'ng wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 






206 BURNS'S POEMS. 



Lines written with a pencil, over the chimney' 
piece, in the parlour of the inn at Kenmorc 
Taymouth. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild shatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom' 'mong the 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side : 
The lawn's wood-fring'd in Nature's native 

taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam— 
******** 
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell ; 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 



burns' S POEMS. 207 

Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd 
Misfortune's lighten d steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds, 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



Lines written with a pencil, standing by the Fall 
of Fyers, near Loch-ness. 

Among- the healthy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream 

resounds, 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 

scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends, 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs. 
• c till thro, the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below the horrid caidron boils— 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Lines on the birth of a Posthumous child ; born 
in peculiar circumstances of family distress. 

Sweet Flow' ret, pledge o' meikle love 

And ward o' many a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw, 
Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 

The bitter frost and snavv ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want, 
Who heal's life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from the many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



LINES. 



Written in Friars- Carse Hermitage, on 
Nith-side. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead,— 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian naming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summit wouldst thou scale 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, with linnet song 
Chants the lowly dells among. 
14 



210 BUENS'S POEMS. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'nmg thee to long repose; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought, 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's trne, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou so high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ; 
Qou'h the oeadstnan of Nith-side. 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



LINES. 



On reading, in a newspaper, the death of John 
MLeod, Esq. brother to a young lady, a par- 
ticular friend of the Author's. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave , 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 



212 BURNs's POEMS'. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



Of Mary Queen of Scots, on the approach of 
Spring. 

Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest ; 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 



BTJRNS's POEMS. 213 

Now blooms the lilly by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

1 was the Queen of bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ! 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman, 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
For th' balm that draps on wounds of wo 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars, 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er would blink on mine ! 






!14 BTJRNS'S rOEMS. 

God keep thee frae thy mothers faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mothers friend 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



LINES. 

On the death of a Lap-dog, named Echo, 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



LAMENT 

For James, Earl of Glencairn. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meilde pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, [years 

Whose trunk was mould' ring down with 
His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touched his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

'• Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honors of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; 
But notcht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 



216 BURNS's POEMS. 

" I am a bending aged tree 

That long has stood the wind and rain 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
Wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stays 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

*' Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of wo and wild despair; 
&wake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in sil mce evermair ! 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 217 

And thou, my last, best, only friend 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the the morning sun ' 

That melts the fogs in liquid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villians ripens gray with time! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood s hardy prime! 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of wo ! 
! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweely on her knee, 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou has* done for me !' 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE HOLY FAIR * 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty observation ; 
And secret hung, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask thai like the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle larsfs and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode* 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air, 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were harplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin. 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, 

To me a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scot- 
land for a Sacramental occasion. 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Twa had manteeles o'dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear d like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes ! 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop 

As soon as e're she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day, 

Wi' bannet aff. quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think you seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' takes me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae, gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A creed some day 

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
And this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm guan to******* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin ; 



20 BURNS S POEMS. 

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair 
We will get famous laughin 

At them this day. 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se J*ae fine remarkin !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side. 

Wi' monie a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed holden by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid- claith, 

Are sprighin o're the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi ha'pence 
A greedy glow, Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show, 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin, 
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools. 

An' some are busy brethrin 

Right loud that day. 



BUR'.fS S POEMS. 2 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs. 

An' screen our kintra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whares 

Are Blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae K ck 

For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day 

happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unken'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er, 
Is silent expectation ; 



222 BURNS'S POEMS. 

For ****** speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-t--n. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' G — present him, 
The vera sight o' * * * * 's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith, 

Wi' ratlin an' wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd up snout, 

His eldrictch squeel and gestures, 
Oh how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidan plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice 
There's peace an' rest nae langer : 

For a' the real judges rise, 
They canna sit tor anger. 

****** opens out his cauld harangues, 
On practice and on morals ; 

An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

• To g'te the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

What, signifies his barren shrine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine. 

A'-e a' clean out o' season. 



BURNS S POEMS. 22, 

Like Socates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne're a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For ******* > f rae t he water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' G — , 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
While Common- Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, 

Fast, fast, that day, 
We ****** f n iest, the Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raibles 
Tho' in his heart ne weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : - 
But faith ! the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannily he nums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like haffins-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators ; 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

An' there the pint stowp clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' Logic an' wi' Scripture, 



!24 BURNS S POEMS. 

They raise a din, that in the end, 
Is like to breed a rupture 

O wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink ! it gles us mair 

Then either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it wakens lair, 

It bangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't wisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or any stronger potion, 
It never fails on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses blythely bent 

To mind'baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're making observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations, 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black ****** i s na spairn, 
His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' H-U, where devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow 

Wi' fright that day. 



BURNs's POEMS. < 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane. 

Whase ragin flame, an' scorchin beat 

Wad melt the hardest whum-stane 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear ii roarin. 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill 

When they were a' dismist ; 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' daubs that day. 

In comes a gaucie gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, 
The lasses rhey are shyer. 
The Auld Guidmen about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

15 



126 BUKNS'S POEMS. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets naes lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day. 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, 

Begins to jow an'croon ; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon ; 
Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink. 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that dav 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine • 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An" monie jobs that day begin, 

May end in Houghmangandie 

Some ither day. 



burns' s poems. 227 



THE ORDINATION. 



Kilmarnock, Wabsters fidge an' claw 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swift to the Laigk Kirk, ane an' a, 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then affto B-gb—'sin a raw, 

An' pour divine libations' 

For joy this day. 

Curst Common Sense that imp o' h-lL 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; 
But ******* aft made her yell, 

An' R * * * * * sair misca'd her ; 
This day M' ****** * takes the flail, 

An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns to daub her 

W dirt this day. 

Mak haste an' turn king' David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
0' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang he, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 
An' gloriously shall wrang her 

Wi' pith this day. 



ZO BURNS S POEMS. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it affwi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, the scauldin jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

And bind him down wi' caution 
That Stipend is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flocks, to feed, 

And punish each transgression : 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae day. 

Nov/ auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty, 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

Nae mair by BabeVs streams we'll weep, 
To think upon our Zion ; 



BURNS S POEMS. £ 

And hmg our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep, 

And o'er the thairms be tryin ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb-tails fiyin 

Fu' fast this day ! 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 
As lately F-nw-ck sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

And sound this day. 
Now r******* harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of A * * 

For there they'll think you clever, 
Or, nae reflection on- your lear, 

Ye may commence a Shaver 
Or to the N-th-rt-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 

M * * * * * and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 



230 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And ay, he catched the tither wretch, 
To fry them in his caudrons ; 

But now his honour maum detatch, 
Wi' a hie brimstone squadrons. 

Fast, fast, this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's face, 

She's swingein thro' the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ? 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greekish face 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And common Sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

But there's Mortality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peeling onions ! 
Now there — they're packed affto hell, 

And banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

happy day ! rejoice, iejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter: 
M ,******* } r***** ar e the boys, 

That Heresy can torture ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 231 

They'll gie her on a rape and hoyse 
And cow her measures shorter 

Py th' head some day. 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

Or Parsonage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches. 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
E'en to a d"il, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 
An' hear us squeel ! 



32 BURNS S POEMS. 

Great is thy pow'er, an' great thy fame, 
Far kend and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowlin heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, dounce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, ruslin, thro' the boortress comin, 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
The stars shot downwi' sklentin light, 
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright. 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sugh. 



burns' s poems. 233 

. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaik — quaik — 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 
They skin the muirs, an' dizzy craigs, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 

Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; 
When the bestwark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worse a louse, 

Just at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' rloa- the jinglin icy-boord 



34 BURNS S POEMS. 

Then Water -kelpies haunt the foord, 
By your direction, 

An' nighted Travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Mason's mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Affstraught to hell. 

Lang syne, in 'Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird 
In shady bower. 

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! 
Ye came to Paradise incog, 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

Black be your fa'! 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin' da'. 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 235 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz 
Wi' reckit duds, an' restit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang better fo'k, 
An sklented on the man of JJzz 

Your spitefu' joke. 
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An'brak him out o' house an' hall, 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall 

Wi' bitter claw, 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 
Was warst ava ? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fetchin fierce, 
Sin that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to his time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots I ken ye're thinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit : 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben .' 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake I 



BURNS's POEMS. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhymes, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cap-stane of his woes : 

Poor Maine's dead ; 

It's no the loss o' warl's hear 
That could sae bitter draw the tear 
Or mak our bardie, powie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense: 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed, 
Our baedie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' 31ailie , s dead. 



BURNS S /OEMS. 2; 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, „ 

For bits o' bread ; 
An down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawtet ket, an hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed 
A bonnier fleck ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wae first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 
O' Robin'' s reed! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead. 



238 BURNs's POEMS 



THE AULD FARMER'S 

New- Tear Morning Salutation to his auld Mare 
Maggie on giving her the accustomed Eipp of 
Corn to hansel in the New- Year. 

A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I'ye seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance wasi' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark : 



BURNS's POEMS. 239 

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 
An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye wae trickie, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 
An' unco nonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did warble, 

Far, far behin' 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak the road I 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh, 
An' ca't thee mad. 



140 BURNS S POEMS. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed : 
But ev'ry tall thou pay't them hollow, 

Where'er thou gaed. 

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fttHe-lan' , 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather. 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our nan', 

For days the gither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskii, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An'slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer. 



BURNS S POEMS. 2' 

I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it: 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hast it, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My plough is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell' t awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin, 
An' thy auld days may end in staryin, 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
Laid by for you. 
16 



242 BURNS'S POEMS. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care, I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, 

On turning her up in her Nest with the Plouglm 
November, 1785. 

Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murdering pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee startu 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 
An' fellow mortal 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie thou maun live! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 24 

A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 

And never miss' t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snelland keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a wearie nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld * 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea's js nought but grief an pain, 

For promis'd joy. 



44 BURNS S POEMS. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me f 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear, 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



TO A LOUSE. 

On seeing one on a Lady' 's oonnet at Church. 

Ha ! whare ye gaen, ye crowlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly ; 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 
Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 
On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattl< 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 2*3 

Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick, plantations. 

Now haud ye there, ye're out e' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet' ! ye'il no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow' ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out 
As plump and gray as onie grozet ; 
O for some rank, murcurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smudduic, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's fiainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie, 

How dare ye do't ! 

O Jenny, dinna tossy your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye tittle ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger ends , I dread, 
Are notice takin' ! 



46 BURNS S POEMS. 

wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder fre e us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 
And ev'n Devotion, 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honor'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labors plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justise, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 
Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind: 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 






BURNS S POE»IS. M 

Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 
Or modest merits' silent claim ; 

And never may their sources fail ! 
And never envy blot their name 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ; 
Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pond'rous walls and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 



248 BURNS ''S POEMS. 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia 1 s bloody lion bore : . 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where you?- fathers led! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd'flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honor' d shade. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam, 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

with reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indited treason. 

(On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4. 1786. the author was 
no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined himself 
to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy 
made the following Address.) 

Guid-morning to your Majesty .' 

May heaven augment your t "" 
On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

I sae ye're complimented thrang, 

By monie a lord and lady ; 
" God save the King !" 's a cookoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, ♦ 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do vvrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 



50 BURNS S POEMS. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day, 

'Tis very true my sov'reign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ' 
But. faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 



J 



BURNS S POEMS. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till, she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God ray life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An WilVs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lesson a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boasts this day. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an subjection 

This great birth-day. 



52 BURNS S POEMS. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairn time, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' W ■, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasures stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or, rattl'd dice wi' Charlie 

By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma claver : 
There, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet, wi T funny, queer Sir John, 

He was an unco shaver 

v or monie a day, 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 



For you, right rev'rend • 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Although a ribban at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swaith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley, stem an' stern, 

Well rigg'd for Venuz' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter, 
Then heave abroad your grapple aim, 

An' large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel asbraw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma\ 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 



54 BURNS S POEMS. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet: 
But, ere the course o' life be thro', 

Ir. may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 






SKETCH. 

A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn' d vive la bagatelle, et vive V armour : 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love, 
Much specious love, but little understood: 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE VOWELS. 



'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are 

plied 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapor throws, 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 
Tn all his pedagogic powers elate 
His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant E, stalk' d in ; with piteous grace 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ' 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel dipthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind. 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothicdome resounded Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd, reply 



256 BURNS'S POEMS. 

The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing wo; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his 

art, 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptis'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth: 
The friend of age, and guide of yoath : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform 'd ; 
If there's another world he lives in bliss : 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

O thou unknown Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour 

Perhaps I must appear . 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something loudly in my breast, 

Jlemonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or Frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou All Good ! for such thou art, 

In shade of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 
17 



258 BURNS' S POEMS. 



A FRAGMENT. 






Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies ! 

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ? 

Ye babbling winds in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath- 
Is this the power in freedoms war 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with plundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's proudest daring 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, jl 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 1 
age. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE. 

For Mr. Sutherland J s Benefit NigJit' Dumfrise. 

What needs this din about the town o'Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin ? 
Why is outlandish stuff, sae meikle courted? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 
For comedy abroad he need nae toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, fell? 
Where are the muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword, 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd h's dear country from the jaws of 



260 BURNS's POEMS. 

O for a Snakspeare or an Otway scene, 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's 

arms 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye ye may follow where a Douglas lead ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them, 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye' 11 soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
' Whose aught thac chiels make a' this bustle 
here? 



BURNS'S POEMS. 261 

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 

We have the honor to belong to you ! 

We're your own bairns, e'en guide us as ye 

like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike, — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 

thanks. 



EPISTLE 
To Dr. BlacklocTt. 
Wow, but your letter made me vaun tie S 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wyd bring ye to : 
Lord send you as weel's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth 1 
He taid myself by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter ; 
1 hjnen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 



262 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here! 
Parnassian queens, I fear I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; 

Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is, 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — thaw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 



Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 



J 



BURNS S POEMS. 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae men better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair ; 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side cline 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie, 

As e'er tread clay ' 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours fet ay. 



264 BURNS's POEMS- 

IMITATION 
Of an Old Jacobite Song. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare nae weel say't, but we ken wha's the 

blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yerd ; 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me quite down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown : 
But till my last moment my words are the 

8am e — 
There'll nerer be peace till Jamie comes han 



BURNS 'S POEMS. 



SONG OF DEATH. 



Scene — a field of battle ; time of the day — eve- 
ning ; the wounded and dying of the victorious 
army are supposed to join in the following 
Song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ! 

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe, 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know, 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

T hou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark \ 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honor — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our King and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave ! 



BTJRNb's POEMS. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fonte- 
nelle on her Benefit -Night. 

While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man; 
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention, 
The Eights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'dits lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our sacred right-^but needless here is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.— 
There was, indeed, in far less pohsh'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet— 



BURNS' S POEMS. 267 

Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred, 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

, Far Right the third, our last, our best, our 

dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

airs, 
'Ganst such an host what flinty savage dares— 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with conati- 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions; 
Let majesty our first attention summon, 
Ak ! caira ! the Majesty of Woman ! 



BURNS S POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 
When Nature her great master-piece design'd 
And fram'd her last best work the human mind : 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and sober worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise, whole genus take their birth ; 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron' d kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes' a material for mere knights and squires; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 
Then makes th' unyielding mass with grave 



Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good 
But e'er she gave creating labor o'er, 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labor more, 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter, 



BURNS'S POEMS. £69 

With arch-alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friend, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and here the homage ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting where withal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at, first, then felt for her poor worK., 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one I claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous 
Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses hapeless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
T heir hearts on selfish stern absorbant stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough , 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung 
boon. 



270 burns' s poems. 

The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend!" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
^Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon I should — 
We own they're prudent but who feels they're 

good? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish' d — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

race: 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times, 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash' d to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine- 
Heavens ! should the branded character be 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows, 
Vet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 



BURNS's POEMS. 271 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur' d merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as 

cends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless fron 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assumes the plough again ; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more, 
On eighteen-pence a week, I've liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare eyen that last 

shift, 
I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift ; 
That plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and narure fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wings for some sublimer 

flight. 



272 BURNS 'S POEMS. 



THE LAMENT, 



Occasioned hy the Unfortunate Issue of a 
Friend's Amour. 



Alas ! how often does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo ! 
HOME. 



thou pale orb, that silent shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

With wo I nightly vigils keep, 
Beneath thy wan, unwarmingbeam, 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill ; 
I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 

Thou busy pow'er, Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace 1 

No idly-feigned poetic pains, 
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim, 



BURNS'S POEMS. 273 

No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains : 
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 

The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 
The oft attested pow'rs above : 

The promised Father's tender name : 
These were the pledges of my love. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown, 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart 

So lost to honor, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth, 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us pass, 
Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 

Your dear remembrance in my breast, 
My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ*d. 

18 



!74 BURNS S POEMS. 

That breast how dreary now, and void, 
For her too scanty once of room ! 

Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 
And not a wish to gild the gloom. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 

Awake me up to toil and wo : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow, 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore harassed out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear- worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

O ! thou bright queen who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Obsery'd us, fondly -wand 'ring stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



BURNS 's POEMS. 275 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set 

Scenes, never, never, to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor 1 forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 






LINES, 
ient to a Gentleman whom the Poet had offended. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send : 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend. 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



876 BURNS 's POEMS. 



TO J. LAIPRAIK. 



Gum speed an' furder to you Jonnie, 

Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonme; 

Now when ye're nickan down fu' cannie 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne*er want a stoup o' brandy 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin the stufFo r er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin wrack, s 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an skelpin at it 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle warn 
Am' took my Jocteleg an whatt it, 

Like ony clerk. 
It's now twa months that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh iH nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better, 

But matr profane, 
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 277 

We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help or rooseus, 
But browster wives and whiskie stills, 

They are the muses. 
Your friendship, Sir, I winnaquatl it, 
An' if ye maks objections at it, 
Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it t 

An' witness take 
An' when wi' usquebae we've wat it 

It winna break. 
But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
An' a' the vittel in the yard 

An' theckit rights 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 
Then muse-inspiring aqua-vitae 
Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty, 
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty, 

An 1 be as canty 
As ye were nine years less than thretty, 

Sweet ane an' twenty ! 
But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sun keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanler, 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 



278 burns' S POEMS. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 

"Enclosing a Copy of Holy Willie's Frayer, 
which he had requested. 

While at the stock the shearers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter blaudin show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scow'er 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My music tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban, an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, kintra bardie, 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighan, can tan grace-prood faces, 
Their three mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces, 

Waur nor their nonsense. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 279 

There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honor in his breast, 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Whasae abus't him 
An* may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him. 

See him the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honor bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums? 

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times, I rather would be 

An' atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colors hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass- 
But mean revenge, an' malice lause, 
He'll still disdain, 



280 BURNS S P0EM8. 

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace an' truth, 
For what ? to gie their malace skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth. 

To ruin streight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee 

Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 



BURNs's POEMS. 281 

O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as christians too renown'd 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gies you honor) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, 

An' winning manner 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
An' if impertinent I've been r . 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



BURNS' S POEMS. 



TO TERR AUGHT Y. 

On his Birth-Day. 
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. - 

This day thou metes threescore eleven. 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure — 

But for thy friends, and they are mony 
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee. 



burns's POEMS. 283 

Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, 

While Burns they ca' me. 



VERSES TO L. RANKEN. 

(The Person to whom his Poem on shooting the 
Patridge is addressed, while Ranken occupied the 
Farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.) 

Ae day, as death, that gruesome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, 
And mony a guilt bespolted lad ; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter 
To him that wintles to a halter : ' 
Asham'd himself to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 
" By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, 
Without, at least ae honest man, 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — D G-d !" quoth he. " I have it now 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppit Rankert s breath. 



284 BURNS'S P0EM8. 



ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. 

Between the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar. 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were ye at the sherra-muir, 

And did the battle sae, man ?" 
I saw the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough sough for, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan buds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bJude outgush'd. 
And mony a bouk did fa', man: 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles ; 

They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords 
clash' d 

And thro' they dash'd and hew'd and smash'd, 
Till fey-men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs, 

An skyrin tartan trewes, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 



burns' S POEMS. 285 

In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe, 
And thousands hasten'd to- the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o* breath 
They fled like frighted does, man. 

" O how diel Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man, 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man. 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat, 

For fear atnaist did swarf, man." 

My sister Kate earn up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will, 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 

And so it goes you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man : 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man* 



286 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Now wad ye sing this double fight, 
Some fell foe wrang and some for right: 
But mony bade the world guid-night: 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' kneel, 
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq, OF FINTRY, 
On Receiving a Favour. 

I call no goodness to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler fight ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface : 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me along your wandering spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's years J 



BURNS S POEMS. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Stoi*, passenger! my story's briel; 

And truth I shall relate, man 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man I 

A look of pity hither cast, 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart ; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', 
For Matthew was a kind man ' 



!88 BURNS S POEMS. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man; 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whinging sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man j 

May dool and sorrow be his lot, 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



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